Well this blogging project really fell through the roof did it not?

So I will start with a story:

A few nights ago a couple of friends of mine and I decided to traverse a section of town that is usually frequented by local youth who wish to escape the deadlock of popular Madrid youth nightlife. A string of old bars and localy owned markets border unkempt cobblestone sidewalk and narrow streets with stone apartments. The scene indeed gives the aura, a window, into the 19th century. Now there are just more Coca Cola signs. Here is a place where a man can finish his half bottle of scotch in the public eye as he lays half conscious under the statue of some heroic poet long dead as feral neighborhood dogs run from bad street musician to an equally annoying pack of high school youth. Trash in the ancient gutters is not common nor is it rare, old grayed gentlemen walk each other to their favorite bar arm in arm. It is a place much as if Madrid took off the belt for the night and let Her gut hang out if only for a few hours.

My friends and I had finished our ceremonial circuit; a beer and a sandwich, a glass of wine at a slightly more up scale establishment, a haggled two pack from your friendly neighborhood Chinese street vendor. We had decided to make our way to a particularly busy plaza as the clock struck about 11 o' clock. It was a giant square of a plaza bordered by bars and apartments on all side, in the middle a circle with a victory arch and some standard historic statue and all around drunk youth conversing and playing guitar and breaking the public display of affection rules.

We nestled ourselves down and cracked open another cold one, content enough to survey the scene, allow light gossip, and to make fun of each other as requisite. After a solid twenty minutes immersed in a classic scene of Spanish night life I, as the furthest figure to the right, caught a strange sight in my periphery. To look over I saw a man not 70 and 5 years standing in front of me, staring. He had a long grey and white beard that met up with long grey and white hair which covered his wrinkled face like a peanut in an April storm. He stood simply enough, his body at a slight angle to my group but still his look was unquestionably upon me. I returned his gaze and at this silent contract he slowly crept up to me and revealed a newspaper that had been tucked in his sleeve. His other hand produced a pen.

"Te puedo ayudar?" I asked, seeing if there was something I could do for him to dispose of this sensitive situation. "Lo siento," I said "Pero no tengo dinero." Which is a very useful phrase when one needs to divert the constant barrage of attention from beggars and homeless.

The man looked at me solidly then raised the newspaper chest high as with the pen and began scribbling something in the space between two articles.

Are you concerned. He wrote.

At this point my new guest was observed by my friends who had ceased conversation to turn to me, showing what could be perhaps pity but also delight that I get the weird-o. My fascination was in that he refused to speak, did not write in Spanish, and stood politely for my response.

"Sobre que?" I asked, not prepared yet to abandon my Spanish. I peered as his aged hand floated to another part of the paper and scribbled something in my native language.

Because I am a stranger.

The situation came to grow stranger still. If he wanted to ask for money then he sure was doing it in a very elaborate way. I stammered, not having the vocabulary to meet this in Spanish and not knowing what the hell to say in English. I met him with a "No but...". Before I could finish my exchange he lifted the pen back to the newspaper.

Are you going to run away?

Uhhh. I looked at him and pointed to my friends to say that we are probably going to go to a restaurant or something, but they were gone. One was giddly retreating to the marble pillars outside of the plaza, the other slowly scooting away and planning his exodus. Bastardos. I met the gaze of this old man as he waited for my response, eternally patient. For whatever reason I met him with politeness and answered back "Uhhhhh I don't know. Maybe."

He then raised the pen one last time and with large looping letters he write simply.

You should.

Ok time to go. I grabbed my friends jacket and we quickly exited the plaza, all the while the old man stood in the same spot as he watched us go. We met up with our more intelligent friend and exchanged bewilderments. Holy cow. What the hell was that. Every part of me said that one more moment on the square and I would laying on the floor in my own blood as he snacked on my jugular vein. Maybe he was a prophet? Maybe a game show. Nope, he was just crazy.

Madrid.